Behind the Black Door
by ninajunkie
Summary: Just another normal day during another slow passing week, but for some reason he can't help following the woman with the bouncing hair down the street.


Goodness... I can't believe I remember I had this story written and I am now posting it! I hate to say that I wrote it for a fest sometime super early on this year but it was never turned in, despite it being finished. I had someone beta it for me as well, and I am ashamed to say that I cannot give proper credit. Life became hectic, had many tragic things happen yet again and sadly had to quickly drop many things and run away from myself for a while. I'm glad to say that things are finally falling into place again. Without further ado, another story by me!**  
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**Behind the Black Door**

It's her. She's in my direct line of vision.

I can swear up and down a million times it is her.

All I can see is just a flash of dark curly hair, but it can be anybody. For all I know, it quite possibly could be a Muggle. I flick the thought away like I had done with the piece of fluff on my jacket and continue walking down the pavement towards some nearly forgotten destination.

It hasn't even been a mere five minutes since I have stepped out of the cramped payphone and I have already been bumped into, elbowed, and had my briefcase almost knocked out of my hand. There is a hefty crowd today walking down Whitehall Road, surely full of pompous, selfish, bureaucratic arseholes. Wizards and witches are blending in, intertwined with the Muggles, invading the street.

I happen to catch sight of those wild brown curls again, but this time I can't get myself to brush the thoughts away. It is enticing to see how her uncontrollable locks seem perfectly tied up, some loose strands escaping the prison keeping them captive.

Quite unexpectedly, the head that is home to those fanatical curls turns around and I catch a glimpse of her face.

It is definitely _her_.

A tremble slithers down my spine, but it has nothing to do with the coolness in the air.

Her lips are stained a deep red, the variety of red one would notice when looking through the bottle of a perfectly aged wine. Those brown eyes are all too familiar, but somehow hold an indistinguishable look. Normally they would glance at me through business pretences, urging the need to sign paperwork. Maybe the difference today is because of the dim sunlight peaking through the tops of the buildings. This notion is now quickly dismissed.

Those topaz eyes float over my face in recognition and without hesitating, she gives me a wink and those wine coloured lips curl up into a teasing smile.

Damn wench. She knows exactly how to pull at my heartstrings and play them like an impeccable artist.

Her stunning face disappears as she twirls around once again, falling back into the masses and the only thing left for me to see are her lively curls once more.

My vague destination lays forgotten in some vast field of my mind as a firm decision arises in its place, willing my feet to follow directly behind her path. I absolutely have to know where she is headed—to know what is causing her to act like a vixen. I'm not objecting to her manner; it's without a doubt making something stir frantically in the pit of my abdomen.

The multitude of pedestrians begins to thin out as we approach a part of Whitehall Road which isn't heavily used. I continue to keep an eye on her and a small voice in my head tells me she knows.

She begins to taunt me, walking like a seductress as the back of her skirt tightens with every tantalising step.

There are barely any people around us anymore and she turns to walk down an abandoned alleyway. She never once looks around to make sure no one was following and keeps on walking with the continuous roll in her hips. I follow her with the knowledge we are now entering another hidden part of London where magic is perfectly acceptable. With this knowledge comes the possibility she could easily hex me back into yesterday.

I turn just in time to see her shrugging her shoulders out of her jacket, the bare skin there peeking out from the sleeveless garment she wears underneath. I desperately want to reach out and run my fingers over the glowing skin there, but I am still too far behind her. She is teasing me and she knows it all too well.

The jacket slides further down her back, slowly and outright painfully for me. She gives it a slight toss in the air, flicks her wand and it disappears. She is currently left without the option to cover back up, her every curve completely exposed to my eager gaze.

Both of her arms are now completely bare, swinging at her sides, moving in rhythm with her swaying hips. She looks outright perfect in this moment, dancing like a temptress, purposely advertising her flashes of skin: a bit at her shoulders, through the circle of missing fabric at her back, and her exposed legs atop black heels.

I can't help but watch and continue this elusive cycle of eyeing her and in return she adds to her intense performance.

She slows down in one brief moment and my instant reaction—curiously enough—is to slow down as well, keeping the same distance between us. Her head turns around for the second time, giving me a glimpse of her suggestive wine-red lips.

Her smile pulls at my heartstrings again, always knowing exactly what to do to make it happen.

The swing in her hips widens, appropriately more pronounced as she walks up the few steps leading towards a large black door. There is an ornate silver knocker right in the middle of the closed entry, but it becomes only a side note in my mind.

This woman silently calls to me, knowing that I'm enjoying the demonstration she has been offering.

Her hand doesn't even touch the door and its handle turns and commences to break open. I can hardly see anything that lies within. It's too dark, almost the same shade of the door itself. There's an air of mystery, bellowing out in clouds from the opening, but at this instant I find myself buried in too deep, too loyal to her and unable to back away. I step in after her, the gap between us becoming smaller.

I can taste her skin already: sweet and flavourful and silky, like rose petals. This information seems to be coming from a memory locked in my mind.

Unafraid, she holds her wand at her side, the tip of it glowing with the faintest of lights, landing to illuminate a small section of the floor.

She barely flicks her wand with an elegant twist of her wrist and the door behind me shuts with a dull click, and I realise the other side of it is black as well. It sticks out even in the darkness we're surrounded in.

In the short path of warm light, I notice her bending back, her other hand touching her scarcely glowing skin as it glides down her thigh, down her calf, to her heels, only to slip them off in one sudden smooth motion. The heel hits the wooden floor with a thud, instantly forgotten. She switches her wand into the non-dominant hand, proceeding to free her other foot.

Watching her touch herself in such a simple but incredibly intense way causes a blur to occupy my mind. All the while, there's an intense urge filling me, something I can't describe because all rational thought is leaving me.

She could cause a tidal wave the way she's moving her hips, climbing the staircase, in an agonizingly slow ascent to the top.

I follow her silent footsteps, staring at the only thing offered for me to look at. I can see the perfect curves of her shapely arse, the fabric of her dress hugging every slight change in the direction her body goes. A terrible affliction comes upon me as I want to reach out, let her know I am still here, but I know I must wait.

This is how a clandestine affair works.

We are only half way up the set of steps and she places her wand into the tight twist of her hair, casting shadows and lights on the ceiling. In another embellished movement, her hands come to her back, reaching for the button at the top of the circle of absent fabric and the dress comes apart as I am also falling apart.

She's toying with me, playing with my frail emotions, wondering when this game will end at the moment I touch her. But I refuse to lose this and fall back to essentially devouring her soft skin with my critical eyes.

When she finally reaches the top of the stairs, she begins to slip her arms from the dress. Without a single thought to it, she lets the material fall to her waist, knowingly aware that her chest is fully exposed to the air.

I hope and wish and plead to the Gods to grant me the ability to look at her, gaze at her beautiful form, touch her wonderful breasts, and play with her like she is doing to me. I crave her completely and she knows how much, but she's seeing this act through beautifully.

She stops in the middle of a long hallway, tugs down on the waist of her dress while undulating her hips playfully, letting the dreadful barrier fall into a pile on the floor.

All that's left on her body is the green silk scarf tied loosely around her neck and silver lacy knickers. She has done this just for me, adorning the temple of her body with my old house colours. She knows all too well the Slytherin side of me and she enjoys knowing how feral and obsessive it makes me.

Her trail of clothes and seduction begins again, leading me to a door off to the side of the empty corridor. Magic escapes her hand as the door moves to open by itself, giving us free entry.

The room is barely lit with sparse light escaping through the loose stitches of the drawn curtains. I detect the only item in the room is the completely black four poster bed in the direct middle, made exclusively in white sheets. It doesn't go unnoticed she has purposely made it this way.

Her naked body moves towards the bed, sits down on the edge facing me—where I'm still staring from the entrance, and gives me a come-hither look, wagging her finger at me. Like I'm directed, I move forward and the door shuts behind me with unspoken magic.

In the most seductive manner, she moves her body further back onto the bed and I will myself to her. Suddenly, I hit an invisible wall, keeping my prize only just out of my reach. I curse in a manner befitting of the situation, banging my fists and forehead against the fake glass.

She's still sitting up, her legs crossed at the knees out in front of her, and her chest is jutted out at me, mocking me in an alluring behaviour. Her tempting hands make their way to where her inviting hair is tied up, loosens the grip, and all her strands come falling down, framing her face. Those stunning curls are bouncing around as she shakes them out and proceeds to bend her head back, letting a small moan escape.

I bang another fist against the barricade, begging her to grant me access. I need to touch her. I need to feel her. I absolutely must experience her.

Her eyes close, a slight smile plays at her red lips, and she answers, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

Continuing with her performance, my temptress lays down spreading her arms and legs to give me a full view. Her hands begin at her hips and creep slowly up her body, dancing as though there is a soft melody seducing her. I wish upon every being in existence to have my own hands replace hers. I want to caress her hips, run my fingers across her abdomen, inch up to her wonderful breasts, taste her impeccable nipples, and bite at her neck playfully.

But I am left in this moment only to watch her amuse herself, still toying with my emotions.

Those teasing hands reach up to the back of her neck and untie the silk scarf that has been embracing her skin, waving it faintly in the air.

It falls down to land on her abdomen, gliding across the surface of her body, following the fingers holding it tight. She moves the silk between her breasts and I can feel myself breaking at the seams, close to exploding. Her seduction does exactly what she had set it out to do: shatter me. My normally calm and collected behaviour is in ruins and pieces in her presence alone.

Granger has faithfully known how to untangle me and in return she has always been able to untangle herself through the process. She offers me an escape and for a night and she escapes as well.

Over time it has turned into our secret; our game. I watch as she waits for me to give in.

Through strong magic of my own with my impatience, the clear barrier finally breaks down and I rush to the bed, lying beside her. In my obsessive hunt for her, I have forgotten I am still completely clothed. It is soon solved with a wave of my hand, a silent enchantment undressing me, leaving my expensive clothes on the dusty floor.

I still do not touch her, letting our match continue, hoping for a time that she might break first.

Still, she persists with the movement of the silk on her body while moans and mumbles leave her delicate throat. Frustrated, I grab the scarf with my hand and permanently banish it away. Feeling the last strand of my resolve break, my lips crash down on hers, forming a tight bond of conducted lips, tongues, and bites.

I can't help myself; this witch makes my insides melt and my brain incoherent.

All during the excruciating hours of working together, I stare at those delicious lips, waiting for this solitary moment that I perchance to receive once a week.

No one knows about our playful and seductive bouts of entertainment and we silently agree on it. She secretly tugs at me. I secretly watch. We secretly keep score. Everyone else secretly goes on with their days not knowing or suspecting a thing.

It's been this way for nearly a year: she picks a random day of the week, sends me a secret signal, and I follow her lead. A single word is never said, never mentioned, and never offered. I want nothing more and she expects nothing more.

My lips move from her mouth down to her neck, marking her as my own, despite it not being left there later on. My mouth then moves down to take in her breast, brushing my tongue over the firm nipple. Since I touch her first, she has to be the first one to let go. I reach down, finally touching the treasure I have been hunting.

I give her exactly what she wants, listening to every moan and every tiny movement of her body. I react with her and I always know what to do when she silently begs for it. She begs and whimpers and asks me to release her. With every coherent fibre I have left, I feel her let go and she liberates her energy around me.

In one split second, I wish that she would say my name when she comes, but she never does and I know that she won't anytime soon. She never speaks and I know I'm not supposed to say anything either.

Before I can assess that I have completed what I came to accomplish, she rolls over and takes her turn at finishing the game we have started. Just like I know how to read her and respond, she does the same with me.

Every movement I make she completes it, making us move as one whole unit. Her moans and grunts and droplets of moisture on her skin bring me to the edge, silently screaming her name in my head.

When our breathing becomes normal again and we are both dressed to present ourselves to our matrimonial halves, she looks at me straight in the eyes.

I know what she wants to say and I respond with my own mercury eyes, conveying everything I am not supposed to feel.

She puts on her conjured jacket, knowing she will be questioned if she arrives at her home without it. Before she makes to Apparate, she lets me know she has a meeting the following day at half three. I don't know why she tells me this, but I figure it has to hold some extreme importance for her to break our declaration of silence.

I don't respond, only left to wonder as I'm sliding my own coat on. Then she places a hand on my arm and whispers the other attendant has cancelled but she plans on holding a meeting anyway. In a final realisation, I nod.

With the pleasing look upon her animated face, I know I have not completely lost today.


End file.
